


Purr for me, Kitten

by Moons_of_Avalon



Series: Maybe This Time verse [1]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Sugar Daddy, Cock Warming, Consensual Kink, Dom/sub Play, Face-Fucking, Gunplay (mentioned), M/M, Masochism, Praise Kink, Sexist Language, Twink Brock Rumlow, Unconventional Conflict Resolution
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-29
Updated: 2016-03-29
Packaged: 2018-05-29 23:40:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6398986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moons_of_Avalon/pseuds/Moons_of_Avalon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brock Rumlow is addicted. Addicted to how Jack Rollins spoils him. Addicted to the petting, the praise, and especially the pleasure. There's only one condition to keeping his addiction sated: Behave, or face the consequences.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Purr for me, Kitten

**Author's Note:**

  * For [linguamortua](https://archiveofourown.org/users/linguamortua/gifts).



> Yep, you read that right, 6500-odd words of nothing but filthy smut. Inspired by the lovely linguamortua's Twink Brock Rumlow series. Please enjoy~

“Trying to sneak away from me?”

Brock halts right outside the door to Jack’s office, his shoulders gradually rising up to his ears as he turns to face the older man. Jack’s behind his desk, an oak monstrosity that looks like it belongs in the principal’s office of some fancy private school, and damned if Brock doesn’t feel like some little schoolboy with scabbed up knees who’s just been kicked out of class and is now waiting for a reprimand.

“No?” he whispers, cursing himself when it comes out like a question. Jack’s disapproving eyebrow-raise does nothing to help his conviction. “J-just going downstairs…”

Jack’s eyebrow stays cocked as his eyes crawl slowly down, then back up, Brock’s body, and he seems to grow more pleasantly languid as Brock begins to go rigid under his gaze. He’s in for it. There’s only the question of what form his lashing will take.

“So now my kitten’s finally decided he can be quiet and not bother me?”

Instantly, Brock’s throat goes dry and he starts to breathe heavier. He can’t help it. It’s pavlovian at this point. Jack only ever calls him ‘kitten’ for one reason: a signal that he’s ready to play. But after the stunt Brock pulled last night, he knows the game won’t be pleasant for him today.

The thing about their game is that Jack’s the one who gets to initiate it. Brock can put a stop to it once it’s begun, of course, and he can do his damnedest to seduce and/or provoke Jack into starting it—by doing anything from walking around the house half-naked to taking Jack’s bike out for a joyride—but he doesn’t get to initiate. And trying to do so is exactly where he’d gone wrong the night before.

You see, for the past week, Jack’s been ‘busy’. That’s all he’ll say when Brock asks: _I’m busy_. With what, Brock can’t say, since he doesn’t know a whole lot about what Jack does—and he doesn’t really want to know, considering a whole lot of it seems illegal—but it’s meant Brock’s been spending far too much time in this far too big house feeling far too lonely. 

And frankly, very, very horny.

Which had led to him deciding it was a good idea to slip into Jack’s office last night, uninvited, purring all the most disgustingly sweet things he could think of while his hands tried to slip around Jack’s shoulders and in between his legs. 

The only thing he’d gotten for his efforts was a rough shove back, and a rougher voice snapping at him to find another way to entertain himself.

That had, naturally, pissed Brock off. Enough to where he felt the need to say Jack had _more of a hard-on for paperwork than you do for me_. Enough to where he’d felt the need to threaten to leave if Jack kept ignoring him.

The look Jack had given him was unlike any other he’d ever seen on the older man’s face. Cold fury. Cold enough send ice down Brock’s spine as Jack told him he was welcome to leave at any time, if he was just going to behave like a spoiled child.

Brock had gotten out of there fast, dashing down the hall and into the bedroom, where he’d spent the rest of the night pouting, still very much alone.

It’s not his fault. That’s what he’d tried to convince himself. 

It’s not his fault when Jack’s the one who’s been spoiling him for the past few months, ever since Brock got the terrible (or perhaps wonderful?) idea to try and hotwire the guy’s motorcycle outside a biker bar. Not that he’d known it was Jack’s at the time. If he’d known the owner of the bike was a six-foot-two, tatted-up beast of a man, he might’ve thought better of his stupid idea. When Jack had grabbed him by the collar and dragged him up like a ragdoll, he’d been sure he was about to get his head bashed in for good. But then Jack had smiled, a dangerously eager smile, and in response, Brock’s legs had gone weak and his hands had gone clammy where he’d been gripping Jack’s fucking tree trunk of a forearm. Before he’d known how to react, he’d been back down on his knees, right in the middle of the parking lot, this time with impossibly large and strong hands holding his head in place while a cock abused his throat.

And he’d loved every second of the pain and humiliation.

Ever since, he’s been addicted to that feeling of being used and owned. And Jack’s been more than willing to provide him with his fix daily, in ways Brock hadn’t even known were possible, in every room in this house he has no idea how Jack’s paying for. 

So yeah, it’s not his fault for wanting what Jack’s conditioned him to expect…

And yet it is his fault. Because he knows Jack needs quiet, private time when he’s working. That interrupting Jack’s work never gets him riled up in a good way. He should’ve known better; he should’ve known that pitching a fit would never get him what he wanted… 

And now he knows that Jack’s going to punish him, just like he always does when Brock crosses a line. It’s probably really fucked up that part of him is so eager for that punishment, but after spending the whole night with conflict tossing and turning over in his mind, he’s just happy Jack’s talking to him, no matter what the man may say. 

Jack’s still waiting for an answer, eternally patient when he wants to be, with his chin rested on his hands as he continues to run penetrating eyes over Brock’s body. Brock opens his mouth to give a reply, but when Jack’s eyes lock with his again, the only sound that comes out is a weak little breath. 

Jack smiles, the same smile he’d given Brock on that first night, the one that sends a flash of heat coiling in the pit of the young man’s stomach, his jeans suddenly too tight. 

“Come in and shut the door,” Jack orders, leaning elegantly back in his chair. 

Brock, graceful as ever, damn near trips over himself to obey, his heartbeat picking up as soon as the door clicks shut. The house is empty; there’s really no need to have it closed, but there’s something about the claustrophobia of it, the sense of being trapped, that has Brock’s hands trembling. 

Jack knows it. That’s why he does it. It’s the same reason why he fixes his eyes on Brock’s again as he painstakingly rolls up the cuffs of his shirt, revealing inch by inch the intricate patterns of ink woven on his skin, accentuating the contours of thick muscle. 

He knows exactly what it does to Brock, how it makes him weak. 

“Strip.”

Brock’s hands fly to do as commanded, yanking up his shirt so hard he hears a couple of the seams pop. He doesn’t care, not when he has more important things to worry about, like getting his jeans shoved down his legs and kicked out of the way. He’d been going commando, as per usual, so his cock springs up readily, earning a scoff from Jack.

“Must be nice being a such pretty boy, barely out of his teens, body all ready to go at the drop of a hat,” Jack muses. Brock’s knees squeeze together as he resists the urge to cover himself. As if it would do any good. “Nice, or terribly frustrating, if no one’s there to help you with that little problem between your legs.”

Brock drops his gaze and scowls, even as another shiver rolls down his back. ‘Pretty boy’…‘little problem’… The only reason Jack uses those words is because he knows they annoy Brock. All part of the game, just another way to take him apart so Jack can put him back together once he’s had his fun. Brock hates it. Hates that Jack knows every button to push to make him crumble, without even trying. And yet he loves it. Loves the shame and ecstasy of being broken and remade over and over by Jack’s hands and mouth and cock.

“You’re awfully quiet,” Jack chuckles, making Brock glance up again. “Still mad at me for neglecting you these past few days?”

“No, sir,” Brock mumbles. Maybe he can soften Jack up a bit…

“Good.” Brock perks up at just the word, doing his best to make his eyes as wide and innocent as possible. He does his share of breaking too, breaking Jack’s patience with teasing and then his heart with pleading repentance. But Brock should really know better than to think he can’t get off so easily, especially when Jack’s still grinning, his voice as smooth and calm as ever when he speaks again: “So that must mean you’re prepared to make amends for your little display last night.”

Apparently, today isn’t Brock day to be lucky. 

“Yes, sir,” he grunts, scowling again, his lower lip pushed out as he chews the inside of his cheek. Jack’s eyes are glinting. He’s got something planned. He’s always got something planned.

“Come here,” he orders, and Brock hears a shoe tap on the wooden floor. With burning hot cheeks, he takes one step forward, only to go still again when Jack levels him with a look of mock surprise.

“My kitten obviously thinks he’s being funny,” he smirks, though his eyes stay dark. Predatory. “Walking around on his hind legs.”

Brock’s stomach drops, as does he within the same second, and he tells himself his whimper is only the result of hard wood biting into his knees. He swallows heavily as he begins to move forward again on all fours, doing his best to make sure his back stays arched downward. Jack doesn’t usually make him crawl, but when he does, he’s very particular about form. And since he’s clearly already in a mood, Brock’s not interested in doing anything else to provoke him.

“Look at you…” Jack purrs, just as Brock comes to kneel between his legs and hazards a glance upwards. Jack looks like a giant from this angle, even more so than usual, and Brock’s cock twitches to bob against his stomach when one broad hand moves down to cup his chin. “Those big brown eyes, like you think you can get something out of me just by staring.” He jerks Brock closer, his tightened grip making the younger man whimper again. “But I’m more interested in what your mouth can do for me right now.”

“I-I’m sorry?” Brock tries, blinking as sweet as he can. Jack just laughs.

“What was that, kitten?”

Brock blanches. “I’m sorry, s-sir?”

“Better,” Jack nods, and Brock lets his lips go soft when Jack’s thumb runs over them. “But I said I was interested in your mouth, not your voice.”

Jack’s thumb pressing down on his tongue has a way of silencing Brock, the familiar, warm taste of his skin a comfort, but he still manages to stutter out a nervous breath. It sounds too easy. There’s no way Jack just wants a blowjob, there’s got to be some catch.

When Jack suddenly pulls away, Brock nearly tumbles forward, catching himself just in time. Jack, the bastard, finds that funny, of course. He loves seeing Brock all off balance and out of control. 

“Don’t you want to know what you’ll be doing for me, kitten?” Jack purrs, and Brock has to bite down on his lip at the sound of the older man’s belt being pulled off. 

“Yes, sir.”

Much to Brock’s disappointment, the belt gets deposited with a clatter on the desk, but Jack’s firm hand on the back of his neck, guiding him closer until he can smell the musky scent of Jack’s cock even through his pants, almost makes up for it. He tries to close the distance, but that hand turns painful in his hair, holding him back. When he looks up, petulant, Jack’s still smirking.

“You need to learn to have a little patience,” Jack admonishes. “And since you want my cock so badly, that’s exactly what I’ll use to teach you.” 

Before Brock can get a word in, Jack’s pulling him under the desk, still with a grip on his hair that makes him gasp at its roughness. 

“What are you–”

“You’re going to put my cock in your mouth and hold it there until I’ve finished up what I’m working on.” 

There’s an absolute glee in Jack’s eyes as he says it, a glee that only shines brighter as Brock’s jaw locks into a pout. Jack’s just gonna make him fucking sit here?!

“You remember how we talked about that, right?” Jack continues, his fingers scratching and massaging across Brock’s scalp just enough to draw out a little moan before he yanks roughly again. “How I’d make you sit pretty for me, that mouth stretched around my cock while you stay so still and quiet I almost forget you’re there. My own little cock-warmer.”

Brock nods as best he can, though he wouldn’t exactly call what they had a conversation. Jack usually doesn’t mean half the shit he spews when buried balls-deep in Brock’s ass, which is a good thing, since Brock’s usually too hysterical to remember any of it. But he does remember this, how Jack had panted hot and heavy in his ear, saying how he was going to turn Brock into the sweetest little pet as he rode mercilessly deep and hard inside him. Brock remembers coming as Jack said it too, pleading for Jack to ruin him in any and every way he saw fit…

He takes heart in the fact that, most likely, no one’s ever had a proud moment while getting fucked so hard they saw stars, and his flagging cock does give an eager jolt at the memory. The sight of Jack shifting closer to the edge of his chair certainly doesn’t hurt either.

“Go on,” Jack nods, finally relinquishing Brock’s hair. “Take it out since you want it so badly.”

Obediently, Brock’s hands raise to Jack’s fly, his eyes on the older man’s face. Ruggedly attractive, that’s the best way to describe him. From the strong nose to the scar on his chin. Rugged. An odd match to Brock’s handsome, but still boyish, face.

“On all fours,” Jack orders once Brock’s pulled his pants down just enough to be comfortable. Brock shifts, wincing a little when the wood remains unforgiving under the bony joints of his knees. 

Even only half-hard, Jack’s length and girth are nothing to scoff at, but Brock takes him in easily, practiced, glancing up once he’s just barely nosing against the dark hair at Jack’s base. The older man hums appreciatively, threading his fingers through Brock's hair once again.

“You alway did look best with a cock keeping those lips apart,” he purrs, making heat rise in Brock’s cheeks. The warm heaviness on his tongue is a heady enough sensation, even without Jack petting him. “And you get so red…like a damn whore, all painted up. It’s a wonder no one snatched you up before me.”

Brock whines at that, his face only getting redder, especially when Jack raises an eyebrow at him.

“Now that, I won’t have,” he states, matter-of-fact, making Brock lower his gaze again. “No whining. I still have work to do and I don’t need you being a distraction.”

Brock settles on letting out a little squeak as he resists the urge to whine again, louder and more insistent. When Jack’s hand pulls away from him, he has to hold his breath to keep from making noise. 

“And no slacking off just because you think I can’t see you, I want that back arched and those legs spread,” Jack snaps. Instantly, Brock’s body locks into the proper posture. Muscle memory, from countless training sessions at the painful end of Jack’s belt. “Good boy.”

Brock can’t decide whether to cry or scream at the wave of relief that rolls through him when he hears those words, but there’s no denying that they get him hard again in seconds. _Good boy. Jack’s good boy._ Just one more new addiction. 

Then Jack leans forward, and Brock hears him plant his arms on his desk as the tiny, enclosed space he’s trapped in suddenly gets darker. He forces himself to take a deep breath, or rather, as deep a breath as he can manage with Jack’s cock nudging his throat. 

He can do this. It’s only kneeling. It’s only being still and quiet and good. 

He can do that for Jack.

His hubris doesn’t last for very long. Within just a few minutes, his knees are aching on the hard floor, and not long after his wrists and elbows begin to feel the strain of holding him up. Saliva wells in his mouth, too, but his first attempt to swallow earns him nothing but a whack from Jack’s hand on his cheek, sharp enough to make him squeak in surprise.

“I thought we already discussed that you shouldn’t be distracting me?”

Brock can’t hold back a little whimper, but Jack must take it as an apology because he escapes another smack. He can hear Jack return to whatever it is he’s doing, the sound of him typing on his laptop echoing against the wooden desk.

There’s no way he’s actually doing work, Brock decides, letting a little huff slip out. Who the fuck does work when they’ve got their cock down somebody’s throat?

Though if there were anyone who could, it’d probably be Jack…

Saliva starts to slip from the corners of his mouth, sliding down his chin and even clinging to his neck before dripping onto the floor. Sticky, slippery…and then Jack’s cock starts to swell in his mouth, pushing further down his throat until he can’t help but gag, a rude wet sound that gets Jack chuckling. 

“Relax, kitten.”

Brock’s eyes squeeze shut as more drool rolls down his chin, and he forces a breath in through his nose. In and out, just like Jack’s taught him, until he feels his throat go lax, accepting the penetration. Just another two words, and yet the release in his body is palpable.

But that doesn’t stop him from shivering. The cold air is abrasive on his heated skin and throbbing cock, not to mention his very sensitive hole, exposed by the posture that Jack insists on. He knows his knees and the palms of his hands must be bright red by now, the grain of the wood and the little spaces between the boards digging lines into his skin.

He could put a stop to it. All he has to do is pull back and say one word: ‘red’, and Jack will hold him and pet his hair and tell him how good he did until he’s stopped shaking. Jack’s made sure he knew that from day one, and only once has Brock actually had to stop them: when they were playing with a gun and Jack turned off the safety while the thing was in Brock’s mouth. 

It had been early in their relationship, when they were still both learning each other, but before Brock had even said the safeword, Jack had known it was a step too far. Brock had frozen, his eyes going wide and wet as soon as he’d heard the gun click, fear rushing through him. Not the good kind of fear that makes your heart race and your skin tingle; the ugly, awful kind that makes you feel like you can’t breathe and you’re going to be sick. Jack had seen the fear in Brock’s eyes and pulled back, murmuring to Brock to _say something for me, kitten_ as he searched the younger man’s face. 

As soon as Brock had managed to whisper the one tiny syllable, _red_ , Jack’s arms had been around him, lifting him up like he weighed nothing at all and carrying him into the bedroom, where he’d covered Brock in kisses and pets, muttering uncharacteristically soft apologies in his gruff voice. Brock hadn’t even had it in him to be embarrassed at the coddling, readily soaking up every second of the affection until the last ounce of that ugly fear was gone from his body.

This isn’t like that. He isn’t afraid, and the pain is mild compared to some of the things he’s willingly endured, even enjoyed, from Jack. Spankings, whippings, shocks, and hard, dry fucks… He can take aching knees and a molested gag reflex. 

But being ignored like this is about to make him lose his fucking mind.

He tries a little whine. No reaction. He tries again, a little louder, and rolls his tongue along the underside of Jack’s cock. The man shifts, grunting, and Brock’s about to count it a victory when–

“Are you looking to get slapped again?”

Brock flinches from the scolding voice, glancing up in the hopes that Jack will look down at him…

No such luck.

“You seem to be forgetting that this isn’t about your pleasure,” Jack sighs. “You need to be taught a lesson: not everything is about you. Now behave.”

Brock flinches again, the movement causing him to gag and another wave of spit to slide down his chin and neck and onto the floor. 

“Behave, kitten.”

Jack’s voice is gentler this time, and Brock's legs tense, trying to squeeze together as his cock twitches at the pet name. He used to hate it when Jack called him kitten, and that used to be part of Jack’s fun. It was just so cute. Made him feel tiny and helpless whenever Jack used it. He’d even gone so far as to ask why, once: _why ‘kitten’?_

And Jack had smiled. Smiled like he was so damn proud of himself as he’d walked around Brock, slipping his arms around the younger man’s slim waist and nipping at his ear before replying.

_“Because a kitten, no matter how small and helpless it may be, is always a little spitfire, ready to fight back,”_ he’d murmured, his lips vibrating against Brock’s neck and making him shiver. _“Not like a puppy. A puppy knows when to roll over and surrender. A puppy can be trained into an obedient companion with very little trouble. But a kitten will always be wily and independent, never fully broken. Just like you.”_

And Brock had melted, just like that, purring as he'd let Jack bend him over the counter and take him right where they’d been standing. Purring and mewling and crying out sweetly…

He’s been Jack’s kitten ever since.

Brock’s trembling more now, and it’s not from the cold as the memory rushes past his eyes. His hands ball into fists, still pressed against the floor.

Jack cares for his kitten, makes sure he’s happy, makes sure his kitten doesn’t want for anything…

Brock can do this for Jack, he can be good. Jack’s good boy, Jack’s sweet kitten. 

He lets his eyes fall closed, drawing in a deep breath so Jack’s warm, musky scent can fill his lungs. He loves how Jack smells, how it clouds his mind and makes him feel hot all over, how the scent grows stronger around his cock…

The pain in his knees and wrists has turned to a burn the sends tremors up his arms and legs, centering in the core of his body where it pulses with heat, matching the heat from Jack in his mouth.

Fuck, he loves Jack’s cock too. Hot and heavy and perfect when it pulses on his tongue or inside his body. And he’s the only one who gets to have it. Jack’s loyal like that, not to mention territorial. Jack’s only for him and he’s only for Jack…

And now even the strain and pressure on his body from holding one position has started to fade as he breathes in Jack’s scent and focuses on the heat in his lower stomach. Slowly, carefully, he tips his head to rest his cheek against Jack’s inner thigh, seeking more warmth and letting out a little sigh. His chin and neck are slick with his own spit, but he doesn’t mind.

He’s special, he’s good, and Jack’s going to tell him so once he’s behaved himself. 

Finally, light on his eyelids makes him blink them open, and he’s met with Jack looking down at him. The man’s breathing a little heavier, and there’s some extra color on his cheeks, much to Brock’s delight.

“Look how sweet you are,” he coos, and Brock preens when a warm hand cards through his hair. “Let me see you.”

Brock gasps a breath when Jack rolls his chair back, pulling his cock from Brock’s mouth. Trails of spit connect the shaft to Brock’s open lips and tongue, earning a groan from Jack as he appreciates the view.

“Made a fucking mess of yourself, and my floor,” he chuckles, smirking when Brock licks his lips, nice and slow. “Pretty little mess.”

Brock whines softly, edging forward and sitting back on his heels once he’s out from under the desk. Jack laughs again, wrapping his hand around his cock and stroking slowly. Brock’s eyes follow the motion, up and down, eased by the slick of his own saliva.

“You want this, don’t you, kitten?”

Brock mewls, opening his mouth again as he blinks up at Jack.

“Such a good boy,” Jack purrs, and Brock whimpers as heat rolls through him. 

“Your good boy?” he asks. He tried so hard, he wanted to be good…

“My good boy,” Jack nods, and Brock feels himself come apart with a happy little cry. 

“I was good,” he whispers. “I behaved, I was good…”

“Very good,” Jack chuckles. “My good little kitten.” 

Brock closes his eyes when Jack cups his chin, his thumb pressing down on Brock’s tongue, coaxing his mouth open wider.

“Does my little kitten want a treat for behaving so well?” 

Brock nods, breathing out a soft “yes, sir” when Jack removes the thumb from his mouth. But that thumb is very quickly replaced by a heavy cock, and Brock moans as warm hands take hold of his hair, holding him firmly in place as Jack pushes down his throat in one smooth stroke, not pausing even when Brock gags.

“Look at me.”

Brock’s watery eyes flick up immediately, struggling for a breath around the thick length blocking his throat. But Jack’s smiling at him and that makes the spinning in his head ok.

Jack’s thrusts are fast and rough, but Brock takes them, just like always. Takes the burn in his throat and the tears in his eyes and more of his own spit sliding past his lips to ease Jack’s way. Brock keeps his eyes on Jack’s face the whole time, doing his best to lap at Jack’s shaft and basking in the man’s deep groans that resonate through his chest. 

He’s the reason why Jack’s making those sounds. He’s making Jack feel good. And that makes little moans slip out each time his throat’s clear.

The thrusts down his throat, Jack’s hands in his hair, the sounds of flesh slapping and the scent of Jack drowning him. It’s too much, he can’t help it. He comes with a cry, untouched and unexpected, his hips jolting forward and his whole body shaking as he clings to Jack’s legs for support. 

And then anxiety rushes through him, before the pleasure even fades completely. He’s supposed to get Jack’s permission before he comes. Those are the rules, Jack’s gonna be mad…

Jack groans, tugging roughly on Brock’s hair to jerk him off his cock. Brock keeps his mouth open, just like Jack taught him, tongue out, still waiting.

He tried so hard to be good…

“Coming all over without even a hand on your cock and yet you’re still a desperate slut for it,” Jack smirks. Brock’s cheeks burn with shame as he looks at the mess he’s made on the floor, his cum and his drool splattered everywhere. He tries to look back at Jack’s face, tries to look apologetic, but when he’s met with Jack stroking his cock, slow and teasing, right over him, all he can do is whimper

“What’s the matter, kitten?” Jack smirks, and Brock shudders when he sees precum beading on Jack’s tip. He knows that taste so well by now and he craves it. He pokes out his tongue further as he tries to resist Jack’s grip, but there’s no contest of strength between them.

“Come on, you only use those eyes when you want something,” Jack smirks. “Tell me what you want, kitten.”

“Y-you…” Brock croaks, his throat sore. Jack will still finish, right? He’ll be ok as long as Jack doesn’t make him leave without finishing… “You, I want you, your cum, please…”

“That’s my good boy,” Jack hums, and Brock lets out a happy little sob. As soon as Jack loosens his grip, Brock's got his mouth back on Jack’s cock, sucking and licking and gagging as Jack resumes his brutal strokes. He’ll still be sore tomorrow from how rough Jack’s being, but he’ll savor every second as a reminder that he’s Jack’s good pet…

He knows it’s coming, feels Jack’s cock get impossibly hotter and harder, and hears a deep growl of pleasure that has him moaning in anticipation. But just when he’s preparing himself to swallow, Jack pulls away, grunting roughly as hot, thick stripes of cum land across Brock’s face and hair and chest, dragging an indignant cry out of the younger man. 

Jack drops back down into his chair with a groan, obviously pleased with his handywork as Brock pouts at him.

“What’s the matter, kitten?” Jack coos, tucking himself back into his pants and zipping up. “You don’t like having my cum on that pretty boy face?” 

A question that only serves to humiliate. Brock hates cum on his skin and hair, sticky and dirty. Hates it, and Jack knows.

“No, sir,” Brock mumbles, raising a hand to clean himself off. A hand which gets promptly smacked away, making Brock yelp.

“Well then maybe you shouldn’t have been misbehaving yesterday, or coming all over yourself today without permission,” Jack snaps, and Brock’s eyes go big once again. He had broken the rules… 

The cum on his skin burns now. Burning shame and punishment he earned by being bad.

“I’m sorry, sir…” he whimpers, his voice cracking pitifully as he looks down again. 

“You don’t get everything you want today,” Jack shrugs. “Remember what I said before? Not everything is about you.” Brock nods weakly. “And since I like seeing you looking like a backalley whore, all used up and filthy, that’s what I’ll get today.”

Brock whines, hunching over more, but there’s no denying the little shiver of arousal that slinks through his exhausted body at those words. He may hate the cum on him, how disgusting it feels, but the shame of being sticky and sore coupled with the sated look on Jack’s face when he glances up is an intoxicating combination he can’t deny. 

Jack likes him like this. Just one more thing he can do for Jack.

“And I’m your whore…?” he whispers, looking up at Jack through eyelashes clustered with little teardrops that have gathered from his gagging. Jack’s façade cracks, just barely, at what Brock knows is a pitiful sight.

“My whore,” Jack agrees. “My perfect little slut who’s been so very good for me today.”

Brock melts as soon as Jack says it, nodding eagerly. He’s good, he’s perfect, Jack said so…

“And I suppose if my little whore wants cum in his mouth so badly, he’s more than welcome to clean up the mess he made on my floor.”

Just like that first time Jack had smiled at him, Brock palms go clammy, slipping on the slick wood. Jack wouldn’t…

“But—”

“But what?” Jack interrupts, and Brock quickly lowers his head. That’s not a tone he can argue with. “My floor was perfectly clean until you decided to mess all over it. Shouldn’t my kitten want to make it nice and clean for me again?”

Despite the phrasing, it’s not a question. It’s an order. An awful, degrading order that Brock can feel his body bending to obey even before his mind has fully wrapped around it. 

“Yes, sir.”

The moment his tongue swipes across the bitter mixture of saliva and semen, Brock shuts his eyes, grimacing as he glances up at Jack. The older man couldn’t look more pleased with himself.

“Such a good boy,” he smiles. His eyes are wandering again, all along the line of Brock’s back, the dip in his waist, the curve of his thighs, making the younger man shiver. Those eyes scald him wherever they land… “My kitten likes using his pretty tongue, doesn’t he?”

Brock can’t lie. That’s a rule: always be honest, for both their sakes. But he does like using his tongue, if not like this…and he wants to make Jack happy. 

He nods. “Yes, sir.” 

“Then don’t slack off, I want that floor sparkling.”

Brock flashes another pout, but doesn’t dare say a word. He can feel Jack’s eyes on his skin again as he bends to his task, lapping at the floor and wincing at the taste, but never hesitating.

Out of nowhere, he feels the hard heel of Jack’s shoe digging into the small of his back, the pressure making him gasp.

“Arch your back, kitten,” Jack orders, as if Brock has a choice. 

“Sorry, sir,” Brock mumbles, spreading his knees a little more to keep the sharp curve in his spine comfortable. 

“That’s it, kitten,” Jack nods approvingly, though he doesn’t move his foot. “Let me see that cute little ass.” A pathetic moan blooms from Brock’s throat at that, enough to make Jack chuckle.

Maybe if he’s good, Jack will do a helluva lot more than just look at his ass. The thought has his spent cock twitching again. Fuck…if Jack asked, Brock would let the man have him right here, tongue still lapping at the floor. The filthiest little slut, all for Jack.

Jack’s heel digs a curved imprint into Brock’s skin the whole time he cleans, taking back every drop he’d let slip out. Jack’s cum is drying on him now, but he takes the discomfort, and the little shivers that erupt across his itching skin. 

Because he’s good, and he won’t mess up again today.

“All done, kitten?” Jack smirks once Brock’s been still for a while, not daring to presume to make another noise.

“I think so, sir?” he nods, sitting up when Jack finally releases the pressure on his back. Jack leans forward, leaving Brock holding his breath as his work is inspected, still with a bitter, dusty taste coating his tongue.

“I think so, too,” Jack finally nods. Brock chances a little smile. “You did very good today, kitten.”

Brock’s smile grows wider, and he bites his lip sweetly, just because he knows Jack likes it. “Thank you, sir,” he simpers, a soft voice still all he can manage from his abused throat. Jack’s hand cups his chin, and Brock sneaks a little kiss against his thumb when it brushes across his lips.

“Now let’s get you cleaned up.”

Jack has baby wipes stashed in damn near every room in the house; they’re no substitute for a nice, hot shower, but they get the job done well enough. Jack keeps Brock kneeling as he carefully wipes down his face, then has him stand to clean the last few smudges from his chest and inner thighs. When Brock’s shaky legs nearly send him to floor again, Jack just smiles and lets Brock lean on him. 

It’s amazing how gentle Jack can be when he feels like it. Brock feels himself blushing at the soft strokes Jack makes with the wipes, his skin turning pink in the wake of each one.

“So sensitive,” Jack chuckles.

“Shut up,” Brock mutters, making Jack laugh again.

Soon enough, Brock’s as clean as he’s going to get right now, and he allows himself to be pulled into Jack’s lap and wrapped up in solid arms as he lays his head on Jack’s broad chest.

Jack always insists on holding him after they do something intense, and Brock never has the energy to fight it. He just closes his eyes and lets the minutes pass, until he’s glowing warm enough to have completely forgotten the cold air of the room.

“So am I forgiven?” he asks softly.

“I guess so,” Jack sighs, and Brock hides a pleased smile. “Am I?”

“I guess so,” Brock nods, eyes still closed as he nuzzles into Jack’s shoulder. Jack’s hand finds his knees, rubbing the shiny red patches that resulted from him kneeling.

“I wasn’t sure you’d be able to handle this, considering how much you hate not being the center of attention” Jack murmurs. “But you did very well, I’m impressed.”

Brock groans softly, muffling the sound by pressing his mouth against Jack’s shoulder. “Stop…” he groans. “You’re gonna get me all worked up again…”

“Nothing wrong with that.”

“There is if you’re just gonna kick me out again to do more work.”

“I only need another hour, and then I’m all yours again.”

“An hour?” Brock whines, only for show, so he can see Jack roll his eyes when he leans back.

“Yes, a whole hour,” he mocks, grinning when Brock frowns. “Which gives you just enough time to grab a shower…and maybe spend a while playing with that cute little toy I got you last month.”

Brock flushes a deep red, the image of the vibrator Jack bought him flashing through his mind. The thing’s disgustingly cute…bright pink, with a fucking butterfly at the base that…may or may not cup his taint perfectly once he’s got the shaft fully seated inside him…

“Think you can do that while you wait for me, kitten? Get nice and ready for my cock?”

Brock’s tongue skates out across his lip as he holds Jack’s gaze, finally letting himself nod slowly. 

“Yes, sir.”

“That’s my good boy,” Jack purrs, pressing a kiss to the center of Brock’s forehead, which Brock accepts with squeezed shut eyes and a little mewl. “Go on, and make sure you get your clothes on the way out.” 

Jack’s eyes follow him all the way to the door, and Brock meets them with a glance over his shoulder just before kneeling down, back arched perfectly as he takes his time gathering his clothes against his chest.

“You’re such a fucking tease…” Jack groans as Brock stands back up and leans against the door with a cheeky grin.

“You wouldn’t like me half as much if I wasn’t.”

“Maybe not,” Jack smiles. “But that won’t stop me from punishing you for it if you don’t go do as you’ve been told.”

It’s more a promise than a threat, but Brock darts back down the hallway anyhow, a grin on his face the whole way.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on tumblr at moonsofavalon.tumblr.com!


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